I’m racing around the house trying to find a jacket, so Franny and I can get to the library in time for story hour when I hear someone ringing the doorbell.

FUUUUUUCK.

All hell breaks loose. The pugs are barking and scratching at the front door in hopes of finding a pizza delivery on the other side of the door. Franny is screaming because, well, she’s a toddler and they don’t need reasons to scream. It’s just their job.

I finally get things settled down enough to open the door to find a Comcast tech who needs access to our backyard to fix connection issues for the neighborhood. I track down the key to the gate to let him in and he looks at me with the kindest eyes and says, “I think you’ve earned your morning drink with that chaos. What’s that saying, for every baby cry do a shot of whiskey?”

It took every ounce of self control not to grab a bottle of whiskey and do shots in the backyard with him. Had I not left Franny alone in the house with the pugs, I might have… but today isn’t the day to make sure the pugs make good nannies.

I laugh and thank him for encouraging motherhood inspired alcoholism. I walk back inside to make sure my lovable chaos is still intact.. and truthfully, to make sure I have whiskey for 5PM. I suspect I’m gonna need it.

Yes, my daughter who will be two next week has her first stalker, and I couldn’t be prouder! That’s how weird parenting is… you finding yourself prideful over the oddest things.

OMG my kid can drink out of a cup. Alert the media, I have a genius on my hands.

OMG my kid can say dog. She’s a future vet and will make me the future proudest Mama.

OMG my kid moved a stool to the sink to wash her hands. She’s clearly the most independent child alive.

Back to the stalker though, because how cool is that?! I’m gushing with pride.

Last week, I stopped to pick Franny up from school and she was still napping. I went to her classroom to wake her up and found a little boy sitting next to her cot watching her sleep. The little boy, an adorable oafish fella, always follows Franny around and constantly wants to hug her. Kinda cute, but she truly hates it. When I woke her up, she looked up at her stalker and let out a giant sigh. Franny looks like her Dad, but she’s sooooo my kid sometimes.

Next week marks a year since I quit my fancy agency job and became a part-time stay-at-home-mom and part-time freelancer. I had high hopes of documenting this huge life change, but haven’t done shit. What I didn’t realize is that being home with a toddler is demanding… and so, so exhausting. I could go on and on about that, but the point of this post is that I really need to start writing again.

You see, I committed to teaching a community education creative writing class. It starts in a month and I really, REALLY need to get back into the habit of writing, mostly so I don’t feel like a teaching hack.

The most I’ve written lately is goddamn grocery lists and Instagram posts, which is incredibly sad since blogging used to bring me such joy. I need to find that creative joy again, so here it goes…

How did an entire year go by in a mere moment? Was it the lack of sleep or maybe the massive amount of love I developed for my daughter? All I know is this happened way too fast and I need time to slow down ASAP.

For example, let’s say I want to skip a family event… I don’t have to question whether or not I’ll feel guilty because I so, so will. I have to ask myself how long will I feel guilty. I’m OK with anything less than 48 hours of guilt. Anything higher means I can’t skip the hypothetical family event.

Enter mama guilt.

When I’m at work, I feel guilty I’m not home with Franny. When I’m home with her, I feel guilty I’m not at work. Don’t get me started on the guilt I feel over the pugs not getting as much attention as they deserve. Don’t worry, they still run the show but just with less walks.

Does it get better or at least a little bit easier?

Because ohhhmyyygoddd people, there’s nothing stronger. I wish I could bottle it up and get my loved ones drunk off mama guilt. WAIT, forget my loved ones. I’d open a fucking club and make billions.

My tiny human, Franny, is six months old, which means I’ve been a mom for half a year… talk about a holy shit moment.

I had high hopes of blogging my experiences, but then life happened. My beloved brother died in January. I went back to work full-time in February, and suddenly here we are and it’s the end of April… and I’m like “Oh yeah, I have a blog.”

Oops.

Having a baby and working full-time means I don’t have a lot of free time. And truthfully, free time is the last thing I want. I want more time with my daughter. Can you blame me? Look at this little pile of love.

I knew I’d enjoy motherhood on some level, but I wasn’t prepared for just how much. This kiddo is rocking my world and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So as for an update. I’m surviving. Franny is surviving. The pugs and husband are, too, surviving. I managed to get through a family tragedy, post pregnancy hormones and a colicky infant all at once.

With that behind me, I’m just enjoying every single day with my family. More to come…

My due date is 58 days away. I’m so ready for this to be over; pregnancy is definitely not my favorite stage in life.

That said, I’m incredibly excited to meet our daughter. Our daughter. OUR DAUGHTER. I have to keep repeating that, because it just doesn’t feel real. Sure, I can feel her kick… um, constantly. Yet, my mind is having trouble grasping that this is a human and not just some freak medical condition that will just magically go away and not produce a human.

You guys, a daughter!

I am going to be in charge of raising another human being. The universe allowed that. MIND. BLOWN.

Saturday afternoon, Chris and I were driving home after grabbing lunch. In an attempt to make idle conversation Chris asked, “What will you do someday when I die?” Because I’m SUCH a romantic, I didn’t skip a beat and said,”Kill myself, obviously. What will you do when I die?” He looked at me, as if in deep thought and said, “Probably build something.”

Um, WTF, build something? I guess that’s fine, as long as it’s a shrine to me.

Today someone asked me if we had a name for the baby. Silly question, since I have named basically every inanimate object I’ve ever owned.

“Of course we have a name! Right now I’m calling her Goddamn Fetus, but we are thinking of changing it in time for her birth.”

At that moment I realized I am a monster and shouldn’t be allowed to procreate, but at least I’m a funny monster to some. Just not the person I was speaking to at the moment. But oh well, you can’t win over everyone.